Friday, September 28, 2007

1. Rex Grossman sucks2. Everyone in this town is still bizonkers for the Redskins even though Daniel Snyder is a total douche.3. Boise State uses the "statue of liberty" play.4. Everett is the guy who got hurt really bad5. Plaxico Burruss has a name that cracks me up every time I hear it, and I once referred to him as "the guy who's name sounds like 'plastic' but with an 'x'."6. Also, Rex Grossman sucks.

Where was I. Hotel Chevalier* is free for download on ITunes, so I'm gonna go grab me some of that before having my second cup of coffee and conducting the most awkward business phone call in the history of mankind. Take care, Internet.

The list above is just a malnourished fraction of the topics you can bring up around the G that will result in her responding, “I have a friend whose mom raises miniature horses.” She claims that they are bred as helper horses and it’s one of her favorite avenues of conversation. I assume being a helper horse means they eat small amounts of unwanted hay you may having lying around or possibly quell tiny riots. She also claims that they wear slippers painted to look like tennis shoes so they won’t scuff supermarket floors. But the G is a known fabulist.

The thing is, even though she loves talking about them, I’m not sure that my dear wife has had much personal exposure to miniature horses. The idea of a shrunken version of any draft animal is obviously charming. And since the G is a girl and all girls love horses and all horses can be manipulated to produce weensy-ized versions of their parents, it would be natural for her to become infatuated. Or so argued my college Logic professor who looked like a Fraggle.

I, on the other hand, have intimate familiarity with miniature horses seeing that I have just returned from an Iowa county fair. I have looked into the face of these stupid things and can tell you without reservation that they are by no means cute or worthy of anyone’s adoration.

First, they have strange hair. It feels like a dog’s fur after it’s been shaved for the summer so it won’t get hot. It’s dry to the touch but still looks somehow oily. Almost like if it’s been greased up with its own canine shame.

Second, they have weird eyes. They’re not soulless like a shark’s or a possessed doll’s but they look dead nonetheless. They didn’t react to any movement in front of their faces like hand waving or carrot nubs or fried cheesecakes. And most of the one’s I saw had some serious discharge and subsequent crust-ation.

Finally, they clearly look ______*. It’s a word you’re not allowed to call people anymore although I assume it still enjoys popularity in middle and high schools. And if you use this there will always be one girl nearby who has a brother and she scolds you for being insensitive. You know the word I’m talking about. Miniature horse’s heads aren’t shaped like other horses’ heads. They’re bulgy in weird places. Whatever is genetically influenced to achieve itsy-bitsyness also clearly causes some sort of retardation.

Their images beg for photo manipulation. Below is an example of the only acceptable use of miniature horses, as far as Pygmalions are concerned: baby unicorns. Not miniature unicorn only baby unicorns.

Only a fraction of the distaste for these abominations can fall to the horses themselves. The rest clearly falls on the breeders. But I haven’t determined what is worse, the fact that they are bred into stupidity to be judged and mocked or that they are actually forced to drag their captors around.

This seems wildly unfair.

*The N: Can I call a horse retarded?The G: i think it would be funnier the farther you take trying to not say "retarded"but yesthat horselooks retarded

As i have reported via IM to anyone who would listen to my silent internet screams this morning: I am spending the day in a frigid meeting room full of older white neckties, 20 of em or so, all with varying levels of low-grade autism.

Paying real attention would make my head explode, so instead I've spent the morning reading about the Padres MB's knee injury (dumbass), and emailing my brother about lepruchans in Alabama. They exist.

Monday, September 24, 2007

Have you ever wanted to express such love and devotion and earnest excitement about something/someone, that you start hyperventiliating a tad and then get teary-eyed and can't talk? It's jut altogether too overwhelming?

Go see D-Wars. Now. Just leave work. I'll be the first to admit that the film raised more questions than it answered concerning dragons, Korea, the arms race, young love, tattoos, roommates named Britney, the power of the press, "poor man's Chris Tucker, if he was fat and lazy, and still the best actor in a film", edamame or perhaps umami (unclear), Jedis, the bombing of downtown LA, etc. but oh God, who cares. I laughed, I cried, I clapped loudly several times at the best repeated line ever. Also, I think I accidentally kicked the toddler sitting in front of me in the back of the head several times with my giant clubfoot. My apologies.

Sunday, September 23, 2007

I’m guessing the Nat’s are going to argue that they wanted to create some bond between the traditions of RFK and the new stadium* by having Teddy Roosevelt not win the president’s race. Fine.

However, the fact that he didn’t participate in the race was remarkably intolerable. He didn’t even show up to the stadium until well into the later innings! Sure it was nice to win the game but the people want Teddy. I didn’t hear the 30,000+ fans chanting any one else’s name at the game.

Friday, September 21, 2007

Okay, hi. I can't do basic math, and somehow ended up buying an extra ticket (I think) for the 9/30 sold out Okkervil show at Rock and Roll hotel. Catherine also has an extra as well. We are tandem-blogging this windfall of ticket availibility. (windfall = 2)

I need to confirm I'm not totally dopey and have promised this to someone else already, but I'm pretty sure it's up for grabs (and Cat's ticket is def. available.) Want it? Face value, I don't make money on these things.

Exhibit 2-100 are to follow. And I will try to do this in the chronological order in which they happened.

#2

Generally, I’m pro-statue. However, my opposition to artists creating likenesses of children is well documented. Child statues are creepy. The proportions are always incorrect, the poses are generally unnatural and anytime the children are interacting with an adult there is always be perverse presentiment about it.

For instance, I once drove 4 hours out my way to visit the only town in American that still sells bottles of the original cane sugar recipe of Dr. Pepper. I got there late and the museum was closed. But the statue out front was on full display.

I can’t remember who the guy is, maybe the good Dr. Alphonso J. Pepper M.D. himself. Or maybe some other weird Texan. Either way, besides the unquestionably painful height of his pants there is nothing really wrong with him or his statue. The child, however, is terrifying.

It’s similar situation with this statue we found in Iowa.

I have no complaints with the captain statute*, even with his Bolton mustache. (Ok, the giant steering wheel belt buckle is bit put-offish.) But that fraking little girl. Sure the first few steps will be awkward when her mystically animated body tries to free itself from the metal base plate. Once she gets going we’ll have to lure her into a lava pit just to slow her down.

Maybe it’s the hair. Is it hard to render long hair in metal replica form? Artists? Scientists? I don’t know and I’m both.

Notice I didn’t mention the boy. While I am aggressively anti-child statue I am 100% behind any statue that memorializes chocolate covered ice cream bars on sticks rolled in nuts.

The statue here is a tribute to not only the good Cap’n but to the Nutty Bar, which was reportedly created in this Iowa “resort” town. I am therefore only one-third against the installation as opposed the normal two-thirds.

*In honor of talk like a pirate day:

This boat captain statue walks into a bar and orders a drink. The bartender brings him a beer but asks, “What’s the deal with the steering wheel on your pants?”

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

I heard or read or made up somewhere that NYC has a law that limits the number of construction projects allowed on one way streets that travel in the same direction. It’s intended to allow drivers coming in or out of the city during rush hour an opportunity to find a less hindered alternate route.

I’m not sure if DC has a similar law. But if it does it needs to extend past construction projects. Let’s say they are tearing down a building on 20th Street and have two lanes blocked off.

Then Russell Crowe shouldn’t be allowed to come in and block off 18th for some bloated, globe spanning suspense picture that will dismay your senses with its austere realism and exhaust you with its passion.

On the plus side, I got to watch them tear down that building on 20th for, like, 10 minutes. I’ll miss that Zero’s subs. But the rainbow was pretty.

So SM ("asian experience" is a flavor? what does that taste like, exactly?) was unaware of Steven Seagal's energy drink production, which naturally led back to re-investigation on the Interhos. Upon revisiting lightningdrink.com; we discovered that there is a helpful icon in the lower left hand corner that tells curious consumers such as ourselves that one can find Lightning Bolt Energy Drink at fine 7-11 retailers. No need to order online! Good news for all.

OH! All this came up because of her hat tip of the millenium:

SM: if i still had a personal blog, i'd be tempted to do something about these photos (scroll down to the ones with the kids)

me: oh good lord. oh. that is outstanding.

SM: he's totally going to drop kick those kids into submission. Steven Seagal is angry! i love the Ukrainian media.

Friday, September 14, 2007

I suppose it was due. I've spent 800 billable hours at emergency rooms with the N (shoulder, teeth, ankle, knee, full body blow, concussion, staples, the list goes on), so it's only fair that he hang with me in Alexandria INOVA emergency room til 2:30 AM, watchin' on the Eukaneuba Dog Show and blowing up medical gloves into what resembled rooster crowns (all the better to perform the "Arrested Development" Gob dance with.) The Xray tech's name was Bob and he asked me if "I fell off a boat, too?" (what? no. who boats in the middle of the night? what? confused? huh?) Also, there was a nurse on duty who had made soup for the overnight ER staff and was serving it from a CAULDRON (seriously). The N told me they were making my potions and poultices. Instead, they gave me Vicodin. I LOVE YOU, ER! I cannot relay to you how much funnier yr little pill bottle made the Reg & Kelly 20th anniversary show this morning.

Besides all this last night, my spouse and the remainder of my local family had a plane to catch to Iowa in less than twelve hours, so why NOT snap an ankle or two. Awesome timing, dipshit!

I am strongly considering hooking the dogs into some sort of chariot apparatus to pull me to Galaxy Hut for grilled cheese. Anyhooos, my stellar vball season is officially over and I have crutches that are one inch too big for me since I live in a family of giants.

More later, maybe even pictures. I'm off to cut some sweet deals with uninsured people with busted ribs for my extra Vics. Capps says pills are worth his other ribs. I can make my own woman out of them, so I'm considering his offer.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

On June 12, 1959, a young boy named Kenny Wilson attended a birthday party for a classmate in northwest Iowa. Like most of Kenny’s friends, this classmate lived on a farm and the party was held outdoors between the house and the large grain silos. The young partygoers were pointedly herded away from the barns since they were noisy and foul smelling and filled with a few hundred hogs.

Between the pig pens and County Highway B24, ran a ditch about 15 feet wide and 5 feet deep. At the far end, a small hole led into a winding series of limestone caverns. While it was very easy to get into these caves it was exceedingly difficult to get out. The county placed an iron cap over the entrance but it was commonly damaged during large rainstorms.

On the rare occasion where they gate was loosened and a hog managed to get free of the pens, it sometimes found its way underground. Although little light penetrated the winding crevices, it was possible to survive in the caverns. While the lack of proper nutrition would stunt their growth, they would still turn feral after a few months - sometimes to the point where the small tusks, normally filed down by farmers, would grow out of their months. Usually, only the smaller piglets managed their way into the caves and it was seldom worth the time or effort to retrieve them.

If you’ve ever experienced the hardships of growing up on a farm, you know where this story is going: Kenny Wilson wandered away from the birthday and fell into the cave. A quiet boy, he was not missed at the party until his parents came to pick him up a few hours later. A search of the farm by the family, neighbors and police revealed little. Of course, hanging over the entire effort was the immutable horror of living on a farm that no one dared speak: the child may have been knocked unconscious near the hogs. If that were the case, he surely would have been eaten in only a few minutes.

As dusk approached and the search grid got larger, the broken cap was discovered. And when Kenny’s parents yelled into the hole, they could faintly hear him calling back. The lowered a slate down to him and he scrawled out that while he was okay there were things down in the cave moving around near him.

A rescue effort was quickly launched but it soon became apparent that the fragile nature of the limestone could not withstand drilling without risking a total collapse. Days of digging by hand also yielded little progress. Food was lowered into the chamber, as well as a flashlight and blankets. The feral hogs, for the most part, left Kenny alone.

After weeks of heroic yet fruitless attempts, everyone became resigned to the idea that Kenny may spend the rest of his life in the cave. They lowered food and water down several times a day. At least one family member stood vigil over the cave entrance at all times in case he needed anything. Clothes, tools and dismantled furniture eventually made their way to him and he built himself a makeshift bedroom. Each night a classmate would send down his homework and the next morning someone else would pick it up. He made the pigs his pets and was even able to train a few to perform basic tasks.

As of 1986, Kenny the Pigboy was still living in his cave in northwest Iowa.

Obviously, this story is complete make-believe. There was no moral or lesson. My dad told it to me when I was eight for no other reason than to fuck with my head. While he did grow up on a farm in Iowa, there was never a Kenny, he never had a birthday party in his yard and their certainly isn’t a vast series of limestone caves under my grandparents farmhouse.

But I didn’t know that when I was a little kid and told it to my friends and grown-ups and any pet that would sit still long enough to listen. “Did you know there’s pigboy living under my grandparents house in Iowa?” I became that kid who told fanciful bullshit stories. And not because I wanted the attention or because my dad ran off or because I lived with my grandparents and my older sister wasn’t really my sister but actually my mom.

I asked my dad this morning why he would do such a thing to a little boy and he just laughed and laughed and laughed. If you’ve met my father, then you know what I’m talking about.

Anyway, I'm off to see my grandparents in Iowa tomorrow. 60th wedding anniversary. I'll pass your regards on to Kenny.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Would you rather have opposite? At least the B-town half-marathon is not like this. I ran in a race on Saturday that was roughly this shape and a guy who trained with Alan Webb was even complaining.

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There seems to be much excitement over Ironman trailer, no? Here’s the G’s simple reaction last night as she’s lying in bed, not even looking at the TV, “Why is this commercial so fucking long?”

Ironman always seemed to me a second-tier hero with dumb villains. And recently he’s been a major dick. So why the excitement? I think it’s less the character and more that the public has secretly craved more Robert Downey Jr. In fact, let’s just forget every other part RDJr has played in the last 22 years and assume that this is a sequel to Weird Science. I can easily see Tony Stark, billionaire weapons designer turned, recovering alcoholic and major Republican campaign donation bundler, pouring cherry Slush Puppies on nerd's heads at the mall as a high school senior.

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Is mine the only CVS in the area that is not already selling Halloween candy? I want my goram candy corn!

T-15 once hosted an annual party at his ancestor’s rambling estate in central Maryland where several amazing things happened. Foremost, wearing nothing but cargo pants and a World War I-era pointed German helmet, I drove a go-cart with no hands into a field of corn/poison ivy because I had a homemade 40 ounce beers duct taped to my hands. Frustrated, I threw an apple into the woods where it hit some girl in the face while she was jumping on a trampoline. True story.*

The second amazing thing that happened was I baked a cake for the party with the Vice President’s face on it. I honestly don’t remember what stimulated this feat but I’m sure at the time it was quit hilarious. According to this adorable golden retriever puppy calendar I keep on my desk, it was the same summer that he and Vermont’s senior Senator exchange unpleasantries on the chamber’s floor. Here’s all that remains…

With every new party it came to be expected that there would be a fresh new cake with a fly new theme. But like the party itself, the expectation for the cake became more of a spectacle than the event itself. Each new attempt brought a lingering sense of disappointment, even as my baking skills increased. In the past year there’d been a sense that both traditions may be thankfully winding down.

But then T-15 went and got all engaged and stuff and it seemed necessary that if there was to be one final party (wedding) there needed to be one final cake. Especially with (now confirmed) rumors that in lieu of wedding cake there would be several wedding pies. Pie? At a wedding? Not only delicious but the opportunity to get blueberry stained on your suit is so much greater!

So what to do? Bringing a cake to the wedding itself seemed misguided as my cake would certainly upstage any pie, no matter how boysenberry-ish. So I aimed for the rehearsal dinner which fell on a Friday and a 13th.

Thank you, Mr. Voorhees, we have a theme. Firstly, I needed blood and lots of it. Secondly, this cake required at least 4 layers to hold the blood. Thirdly, I needed more blood.

The cake and frosting portion of this experiment seemed pretty straightforward. I bought two cans of the second cheapest frosting and two boxes of the yellow cake with the least amount of written instructions. But the blood had me vexed. When trying to explain these types of projects I tend to confuse and annoy most folk so talking the butcher into supplying me with the real stuff was probably out of the question. Susan B Anthony always warned you always catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar but what of some sort of blood/sugar concoction? Will is smell? Will there be sharks? Too many questions.

I wandered the grocery store looking for a possible solution. Strawberry Quik looked awfully pink. Strawberry and raspberry sauce, jams and jellies were all too chunky. I did have some lingonberry jam I picked up at Ikea that was the right color but the little lingonberries made it look too much like brain matter. I didn’t want my ingredients limiting me into doing some sort of head wound cake only.

Then I remembered the crappy and impossible to clean blender we got as a prize for getting married. If I was going to do this right, I couldn’t rely on pre-made blood. I needed to make my own. And fortunately raspberries were on sale. Tada.

I put the raspberries in the microwave first so they’d be a little mushy and they blended up real nice. The only problem was the little seeds. Good thing I’d bought a fencing foil at Herman’s Sporting Goods right before they went out of business. (Also Boy Scout merit badges I hadn’t earned. Re: porcine studies.)

Gravity wasn’t working hard enough to pull the goop into the bowl so I forced it through with a soup ladle. The result was pure seedless raspberry blood. It was a bit tart so I mixed in a few tablespoons on sugar.

Originally, my plan for this thing was to just have a white cake with buckets of blood on top and maybe a machete sticking out. But the blood turned out too well just to be splattered around like a hobo massacre. Could the blood be in the cake? Not cooked into the cake with some marble effect. But could the cake actually bleed when you cut into it? Let’s find out.

I baked four cakes. After letting them cool, I popped one out of the pan and used a spoon to dig a small divot. The original plan was to pour the blood into the hole. But I figured too much of it up would be sponged up and I’d just have a red and raspberry flavored cake. And soggy.

So I frosted the hole to hopefully give myself a moderate seal.

Repeat three times and stack.

The only problem with this plan is that it used up an absurd amount of frosting. After 2 additional trips to the grocery store, I ended up using an insane 5 cans. But as far as I could tell the thing was holding. The center hadn’t collapsed in on itself meaning I hadn’t dug too deep. But too be sure, I stuck the whole thing in the freezer to help it set.

Now we needed the rest of the decorations. Any attempt to draw a Jason mask would end in a Jason Takes Manhattan-type failure. The G is the master decorator and she wasn’t around. I was going to have to cheat. Off to the local costume shop!

Our neighborhood costume depository doubles as a tuxedo rental store. Actually, it functions as a tuxedo rental store with the costume part sort of existing only for Halloween, high school mascots and crackpots like myself. As soon as I walked in, three Italians swarmed me with their cloth tape measures looking to get at my in-seem. Sorry, sirs, but I’m not here for your fine woolen wares. Can you point me to your hockey masks?

There was one young girl in the back reading a ratty copy of Flowers In the Attic and guarding the costumes. She jumped up and asked if she could help. Fake mustache? Giant foam cowboy hat? Unnecessarily frightening Slipknot mask? No Ma’am. Jason mask and possibly a plastic machete, please. Done, she said.

Once home, attaching the mask was easy enough. I used toothpicks to keep it from settling directly on the frosting and added a little blood to the front and back to give it splash of color. I’d have to say I was pretty much done.

It was a huge hit. But when the bride cut into it…

It bled, but not as much as I’d hoped. I’m not sure if it was practical to think this would be a gusher. The cake was probably not deep enough to hold the required amount of overflow blood. Ah well. That’ll be another cake for another day.

So how did it taste? Honestly, it was unbelievably good. Two bridesmaids, an aunt and possibly a grandmother said so. The cake part itself was pretty average. But if you were take four carpet samples and cover them with 5 cans of vanilla frosting and fresh raspberry sauce it would also taste awesome. Let’s say Queen Victoria 1899 Christmas Dinner awesome. That’s right, woodcock pie awesome.

So there you have it. If you’re looking to make a blood filled cake, you now have a blueprint. It isn’t perfect but it should serve you well enough.

Woodcock.

*Actually, all true parts of several combined stories from the same party. Though, they did not happen in that quick a succession.

I spent all day yesterday with a group of very kind strangers, playing in a volleyball tournnament in 90 degree heat. Why anyone would ever think this is a good idea escapes me, but it was indeed kind of fun and when my foursome wasn't playing, I spent a few hilarious minutes in the rapidly-disappearing shade playing "guess how many ice cubes I'm holding in my hand RIGHT NOW" with a group of 5 year old girls. Anyhoodles, I played embarrassingly shitty although I did get one really good block in against some jackass with tribal tattoos. That makes up completely for my asstastic serving skills.

Also, there was a dog frisbee contest. Border collies are kind of terrifying. I don't think I could ever own a dog smarter than myself. If I threw a frisbee at BD, it would hit him square between the eyes and then he'd slink off because he thought he smelled string cheese.

By the time I carpooled home from Annapolis, I was good for nothing except blanking staring at the television screen trying to pretend I cared that "REX GROSSMAN TOTALLY SUCKS." But I don't really care. Oh, and then I watched "Feasting on Asphalt" which seriously might be the best show ever made. I love Alton Brown and his fried-food man boobs. Then I fell asleep.

Friday, September 07, 2007

May I throw in my vote - The charmingly named Kentucky Headhunters have an album, Electric Barnyard, featuring the song "16 and Single." (Now I'm feelin' rowdy and lookin' for some fun/ you see I just had my birthday and I done turned 21).

So it's not unintentional, but it's still my (and my dad's!) favorite. Apple, tree only a foot away, etc.

- do i want to meet him and his fraternity brothers in Adams Morgan Saturday night, they are getting a hotel? (answer: no)- have I ever heard of Arcade Fire, they are pretty good huh? (answer: really? no, really?????)

things I'm going to accomplish today:

- obsess over a house i really want to buy even though it's probably terribly impractical, and I believe may have a root cellar and the N. is terrified of root cellars, so we could never move there because of his "fear of skeletons"- drinking?

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

Word is Pavarotti is in very bad health. I don’t intend to speak ill of the dead so I’ll do it now. I have a great story about the famed tenor but it can not be recounted on this family website. If you want to hear it, IM or email or ask me in person. It’s pretty good.

- Life has been desparately dull lately, what with the laundry completion and uh, that's it. Even my IM's aren't funny, although Amanda and I spent 30 minutes the other day dissecting the age old problem of whether or not it's totally reasonable to date/not date a dude based on firstname alone. (Ask us about our opinions on Bills/Bens/Ricks/Matts)* Somewhere back in the black holes of times past, there are two v. proper hoopskirted ladies writing letters in spidery handwriting about whether you should ever court a Wilhelm or a Laurent, because ermgggz you just know Laurent is a bad kisser. < / SIGHS, STUPID, NOT FUNNY >

- My shoulder/back, after being "back on track" (sorry), are nicely fucked up again, just in time for Fall. Thanks, God!

- I uploaded/swiped from K. photos from Chicago. Here's one that sums everything up quite nicely:

hint: used to have beer in it

- Other things I have been reading/watching lately (besides all things Dragon Wars):

Tuesday, September 04, 2007

oh another thing I found out this weekend/recently: they are making a movie out of Ethan Hawke's The Hottest State, which might be a miserable idea. (This previous sentence was directed towards anyone who might be involved with the making of said movie, perhaps you should get out now? Or is it too late, and this destined-to-be-pile-of-excrement is already made? see, i can't even remember exactly what I read about it, I was already so bored.)

Oh man. Hottest State was like... Love Story, only for the even stupider.

I guess if one were to measure a long weekend's success by the amount of meat consumed, then mine was pretty grand. I et steak two nights in a row, and then barbeque. Also the house is clean(ish) and I took a nap at poolside while listening to old Luna songs on 11.*

Also, I am covered from head-to-tiny-toes in mosquito bites the sizes of silver dollars.